To Absent Friends
I guess you could say he was a bastard.
In the "born on the wrong side of the sheets" sense - his Mama was a purebred Chocolate Sealpoint Siamese showcat who somehow managed to slip out of the house one night and get herself knocked up by the neighborhood Tom. He must have been one handsome sonofabitch, that Tom, because all four babies in that litter were unbelievably beautiful.
Candy's call came in the middle of the night. Dark, but not stormy - just a beautiful autumn night where the air was crisp and clean and still smelled of the neighbors' earlier leaf burning efforts.
"Maggie, I need help. Jezebel abandoned the litter. I can't do this anymore."
Wait, whoa, what? Do what? Wait. Shit! Are you taking care of them yourself? For how long?
"A week now. Jez just...stopped. I don't know what to do. They're hungry all the time! Their eyes just opened yesterday."
Maybe the vet can help you find fosters?
"I tried. They're all full! Can you take one?"
Take a kitten? Here?
"The black one is so little...and he has the most amazing eyes..."
And so it was, late of a September night, that a pitifully teeny, mewling, squirming bundle of silken black fur, pointy face, big ears and astonishing blue-green eyes was thrust into my arms. Well, hell. Now what?
"What" turned out to be feeding the little thing every two hours for a while, keeping it warm...and falling ass over teakettle in love with it.
Him.
Schiller.
I had a full slate of classes that quarter, most of them which overlapped his feeding times, so he went to a lot of classes with me. He'd nestle in my sweatshirt, warm and content, never peeping until it was time to be fed - and I managed to get the bottle into him before he started fussing, so few people ever noticed that I was feeding a kitten at the back of the class.
Until the day in Survey of German Literature when Schiller decided to offer biting commentary on his namesake's
Wallenstein trilogy.
*MEW*MEW*MEW*
"FRÄULEIN! WHAT is that creature doing in my lecture?"
Participating in the discussion, Frau Professorin?
"That's ridiculous!"
His mother abandoned him. He has to eat frequently.
"In my lecture?"
If I am meant to be here as well, ma'am, yes. He's on topic!! His name is Schiller!
And so it came to be that our section of the Survey acquired a mascot who was eventually permitted to prowl about our small class, so long as he wasn't too loud in his criticisms. He quickly endeared himself to the Professorin and my classmates, and was immediately spoiled by all. This led to him approaching everyone he met with an attitude of ownership. He never asked permission to sit upon your lap. He'd just hop up, make himself at home, and stare with a look of "Go ahead, punk. Move me."
No one ever did.
As he passed through kittenhood and his gawky, funny-looking adolescent phase, into adulthood, he developed quite a personality. He took to waiting for me at the door, springing to twine himself around my legs as soon as I came home from work, miaowing and wowing and mooing and mrring and demanding to investigate the contents of whatever bag I brought home. I learned that he had a passion for Mcdonald's french fries. He would swipe them at every opportunity, and completely ignore me when I scolded him for sneaking them out of the carton. Sleeping was not permitted unless he had himself mashed against the top of my head, a habit that persisted until very recently. Rolling over didn't faze him. He'd just shift, administer a chiding nip to my eyebrow or cheek, and resume mashing himself to the top of my head, usually purring like a freight train.
My head, if nothing else, was always very warm.
Of course, this didn't prevent him from showing a healthy interest in the sleeping habits of others. Overnight guests often reported late night visits from the King of All Creation, usually comprising gentle head-butts, nibbles and the occasional lick. And when we brought Alex home from the hospital? He spent so much time with that baby that the MIL freaked out and claimed the cat was "up to no good".
He was, in fact, up to plenty of good. Alex was *his* kitten, you see, and he was going to protect his kitten. If Schiller didn't like you, you did not hold the baby, and attempting to do so without his consent was likely to lead to you pulling back a bloody stump rather than an intact arm. He mellowed a little later, when Ernie arrived, but that peculiar bond he had with both of the Monsters persisted right to his very last breath. Until two weeks ago, he waited every day for them at the door, greeting them with miaows and wows and moos and mrrs, demanding to be picked up, snuggled and fed treats. They were only too happy to oblige, and he was only too happy to serve as their guardian, watching over them during waking and sleeping hours. Even today, he wobbled over to them to lean against them.
He loved to explore. Heather and I would frequently open up drawers or cupboards and find those astounding eyes staring inquisitively back at us. His desire to be the John Lewis of the cat world did occasionally present him with a few problems over the years, though. Throwing oneself against the screen to go after the birdies flying by usually resulted in riding the screen down into the shrubbery. Slipping into the fridge for a look while we were taking a fast inventory resulted in coming home after about half an hour of grocery shopping to an exceedingly pissed off kitty stalking out of the fridge with murder in his eyes. Years later, chewing through the screen door, he went on a 16 day walkabout and I thought he was gone forever. He led Mark, _constantine and me on a merry chase through a thunderstorm to fetch his skinny ass back into the house.
He pretty much gave up adventuring after that one.
Schiller didn't just demand respect. He'd slap it into you if you weren't properly obedient. Even big, dopey Murphy, who tipped the scales at 85 pounds to Schiller's 6, approached The Emperor meekly and with respect. He made it clear that he was Owner of the Universe. I was merely his Chief of Staff, and my job was but to Obey.
It was so very hard, but I did Obey when he told me this week that he was Done.
Dr. Christine Ravary helped my beloved friend of 20 years cross safely into his Mother's waiting arms just a little after 4:30PM today, surrounded and held by the family that held him dear. She treated him with respect and loving care, stroking him gently and whispering to him that it was OK to leave us and go Home. She helped him leave this world with grace and dignity, and gently wrapped him in the veil he had claimed from me so we could take him home.
It was Alexander who cradled his veiled body on the ride home, and Alexander who laid him to rest, a gesture of love to his very first and truest friend. We buried him in front of the herb garden, near the catnip planter, and in the Spring will buy a stone cat from Carruth Studios to mark his resting place. He'll be happy to have a better view of the birds, I think.
We went inside then, and toasted our departed companion - Tequila for Alex and me, Remy for Mark and Ernie. "Damned cat!", said Mark. "To snuggle kitty," Ernie sniffled. To stubborn old bastards. "No, Mom," Alex said solemnly. "To absent friends." We drank then, and cried.
"Absent"...doesn't seem like enough. There is a silent thread running through the usual household buzz, devoid of the miaows and wows and moos and mrrs of his chatty nature. The insistent head-butts are no more. The soft kitty paws kneading my lap have been stilled.
There will be another cat eventually, but for now we are trying to cope with the giant, gaping hole where his Presence used to be. He's going to be a tough act to follow.
Farewell, Old Friend. I will wait patiently for the day that we find each other again. Tell Murph and Sydney hello for me, OK? And try to help them out? They never were as smart as you.
In the "born on the wrong side of the sheets" sense - his Mama was a purebred Chocolate Sealpoint Siamese showcat who somehow managed to slip out of the house one night and get herself knocked up by the neighborhood Tom. He must have been one handsome sonofabitch, that Tom, because all four babies in that litter were unbelievably beautiful.
Candy's call came in the middle of the night. Dark, but not stormy - just a beautiful autumn night where the air was crisp and clean and still smelled of the neighbors' earlier leaf burning efforts.
"Maggie, I need help. Jezebel abandoned the litter. I can't do this anymore."
Wait, whoa, what? Do what? Wait. Shit! Are you taking care of them yourself? For how long?
"A week now. Jez just...stopped. I don't know what to do. They're hungry all the time! Their eyes just opened yesterday."
Maybe the vet can help you find fosters?
"I tried. They're all full! Can you take one?"
Take a kitten? Here?
"The black one is so little...and he has the most amazing eyes..."
And so it was, late of a September night, that a pitifully teeny, mewling, squirming bundle of silken black fur, pointy face, big ears and astonishing blue-green eyes was thrust into my arms. Well, hell. Now what?
"What" turned out to be feeding the little thing every two hours for a while, keeping it warm...and falling ass over teakettle in love with it.
Him.
Schiller.
I had a full slate of classes that quarter, most of them which overlapped his feeding times, so he went to a lot of classes with me. He'd nestle in my sweatshirt, warm and content, never peeping until it was time to be fed - and I managed to get the bottle into him before he started fussing, so few people ever noticed that I was feeding a kitten at the back of the class.
Until the day in Survey of German Literature when Schiller decided to offer biting commentary on his namesake's
Wallenstein trilogy.
*MEW*MEW*MEW*
"FRÄULEIN! WHAT is that creature doing in my lecture?"
Participating in the discussion, Frau Professorin?
"That's ridiculous!"
His mother abandoned him. He has to eat frequently.
"In my lecture?"
If I am meant to be here as well, ma'am, yes. He's on topic!! His name is Schiller!
And so it came to be that our section of the Survey acquired a mascot who was eventually permitted to prowl about our small class, so long as he wasn't too loud in his criticisms. He quickly endeared himself to the Professorin and my classmates, and was immediately spoiled by all. This led to him approaching everyone he met with an attitude of ownership. He never asked permission to sit upon your lap. He'd just hop up, make himself at home, and stare with a look of "Go ahead, punk. Move me."
No one ever did.
As he passed through kittenhood and his gawky, funny-looking adolescent phase, into adulthood, he developed quite a personality. He took to waiting for me at the door, springing to twine himself around my legs as soon as I came home from work, miaowing and wowing and mooing and mrring and demanding to investigate the contents of whatever bag I brought home. I learned that he had a passion for Mcdonald's french fries. He would swipe them at every opportunity, and completely ignore me when I scolded him for sneaking them out of the carton. Sleeping was not permitted unless he had himself mashed against the top of my head, a habit that persisted until very recently. Rolling over didn't faze him. He'd just shift, administer a chiding nip to my eyebrow or cheek, and resume mashing himself to the top of my head, usually purring like a freight train.
My head, if nothing else, was always very warm.
Of course, this didn't prevent him from showing a healthy interest in the sleeping habits of others. Overnight guests often reported late night visits from the King of All Creation, usually comprising gentle head-butts, nibbles and the occasional lick. And when we brought Alex home from the hospital? He spent so much time with that baby that the MIL freaked out and claimed the cat was "up to no good".
He was, in fact, up to plenty of good. Alex was *his* kitten, you see, and he was going to protect his kitten. If Schiller didn't like you, you did not hold the baby, and attempting to do so without his consent was likely to lead to you pulling back a bloody stump rather than an intact arm. He mellowed a little later, when Ernie arrived, but that peculiar bond he had with both of the Monsters persisted right to his very last breath. Until two weeks ago, he waited every day for them at the door, greeting them with miaows and wows and moos and mrrs, demanding to be picked up, snuggled and fed treats. They were only too happy to oblige, and he was only too happy to serve as their guardian, watching over them during waking and sleeping hours. Even today, he wobbled over to them to lean against them.
He loved to explore. Heather and I would frequently open up drawers or cupboards and find those astounding eyes staring inquisitively back at us. His desire to be the John Lewis of the cat world did occasionally present him with a few problems over the years, though. Throwing oneself against the screen to go after the birdies flying by usually resulted in riding the screen down into the shrubbery. Slipping into the fridge for a look while we were taking a fast inventory resulted in coming home after about half an hour of grocery shopping to an exceedingly pissed off kitty stalking out of the fridge with murder in his eyes. Years later, chewing through the screen door, he went on a 16 day walkabout and I thought he was gone forever. He led Mark, _constantine and me on a merry chase through a thunderstorm to fetch his skinny ass back into the house.
He pretty much gave up adventuring after that one.
Schiller didn't just demand respect. He'd slap it into you if you weren't properly obedient. Even big, dopey Murphy, who tipped the scales at 85 pounds to Schiller's 6, approached The Emperor meekly and with respect. He made it clear that he was Owner of the Universe. I was merely his Chief of Staff, and my job was but to Obey.
It was so very hard, but I did Obey when he told me this week that he was Done.
Dr. Christine Ravary helped my beloved friend of 20 years cross safely into his Mother's waiting arms just a little after 4:30PM today, surrounded and held by the family that held him dear. She treated him with respect and loving care, stroking him gently and whispering to him that it was OK to leave us and go Home. She helped him leave this world with grace and dignity, and gently wrapped him in the veil he had claimed from me so we could take him home.
It was Alexander who cradled his veiled body on the ride home, and Alexander who laid him to rest, a gesture of love to his very first and truest friend. We buried him in front of the herb garden, near the catnip planter, and in the Spring will buy a stone cat from Carruth Studios to mark his resting place. He'll be happy to have a better view of the birds, I think.
We went inside then, and toasted our departed companion - Tequila for Alex and me, Remy for Mark and Ernie. "Damned cat!", said Mark. "To snuggle kitty," Ernie sniffled. To stubborn old bastards. "No, Mom," Alex said solemnly. "To absent friends." We drank then, and cried.
"Absent"...doesn't seem like enough. There is a silent thread running through the usual household buzz, devoid of the miaows and wows and moos and mrrs of his chatty nature. The insistent head-butts are no more. The soft kitty paws kneading my lap have been stilled.
There will be another cat eventually, but for now we are trying to cope with the giant, gaping hole where his Presence used to be. He's going to be a tough act to follow.
Farewell, Old Friend. I will wait patiently for the day that we find each other again. Tell Murph and Sydney hello for me, OK? And try to help them out? They never were as smart as you.